The Broken Ones (Jesus Freaks #3)

by Andrea Randall

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Kids

  Kennedy

  “Now that you’ve scared the absolute… whatever… out of all of us, can you finally tell us why we’re here?” Mom paces Roland’s living room, trying to watch her language it seems. I sit next to Dan while Roland leans against the mantel, his eyes flickering between the flames and my mom’s panicked strut.

  It wasn’t that hard of a sell to get Mom and Dan to drop everything to fly here. It might be after midnight, but I never get to tell all of my parents anything at the same time, and the telephone gets old. I assured them I was safe, which isn’t a complete lie, but that it was too important to relay over the phone or, even worse, email.

  “There’s been some… stuff going on,” I start. The worst start ever, giving no information. “It didn’t involve me at first. But, now it does. And I can’t go on not saying anything anymore.”

  Dan rubs his hand down my back. “You’re kind of freaking us out here, kid.”

  I nod. “I know. I’m… okay yesterday, or whatever, like twelve hours ago when Roland was at a meeting at the church, Dean Baker stopped by.”

  Roland looks confused. “What’d he want? I didn’t get any messages from him…”

  I shake my head, swallowing the lump in my throat. “It wasn’t you he wanted to talk to.”

  “What’s this about?” Mom asks, in the dark more than she even knows.

  “Mom,” I start. “You should know that this guy is bad news. Don’t freak out yet until you know all the things. But, he just… doesn’t like me. Or Roland, for that matter, and he goes out of his way to remind me of that any chance he gets.”

  “He threatens you?” She nails it.

  I shift, uneasy. Dan tries to calm my nerves. “It’s okay, Kennedy, just let it out.”

  So I do.

  “He what?!” Roland slams his fist against the cold marble tile around his fireplace. Mom reaches for her phone.

  “This is bullshit,” she hisses. “Why didn’t you tell me this was going on,” she spits at Roland.

  He runs a hand through his shaggy, dirty blond hair. “I didn’t know, Wendy. And just because someone doesn’t like you doesn’t mean they’re going to show up at your house and choke you!”

  “Stop!” I yell. “Please.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us sooner. Like immediately?” Dan asks. Calm as his hand runs the length of my back.

  “Mom, put the phone down, please!” I beg again, ignoring his question. “There’s more,” I say softly. “It’s so complicated…”

  “What more could there be?” she snaps. “This man parades around preaching Christ’s love and he does this! This. This is why I didn’t want you here.”

  “Because you knew an administrator was a sexual deviant?”

  She waves her hand. “At a school that forces women to be submissive to their husbands and heavily monitors their students’ sexual lives. Yeah.”

  Roland’s mouth drops and I stand, nearly toe-to-toe with her. “There is no they here, Mother. Don’t blame Dad. Please. He had no idea. I know I maybe should have said something sooner, but we didn’t really realize what a monster Dean Baker was. “

  “We?” Mom and Roland say at the same time.

  “Yeah,” I say in a sigh. “We.”

  The Resistance.

  ***

  It really is kind of a shame my parents couldn’t work things out. They make an incredible team, honestly. Though, they make a great team comprised of the people they are now, not who they were then. And, then Dan wouldn’t be in the picture. And the four of us wouldn’t be sitting around in choked silence after my telling of all the stories that weave together. Caitlyn’s sister, Asher’s girlfriend, for lack of a better term, Courtney’s rapist, and my peripherally shady dealings with the dean, all the way back to the meeting we had in his office last year that was never documented in my file.

  “We’ll get you to a doctor right away. If there’s any damage, even a bruise, we’ll need you taken care of and it documented,” Mom says between deep, angry breaths. Pacing.

  “Mom… You always told me not to lace up for a fight until I knew exactly who I was dealing with. Now, I might not know everything about this guy—though we tried to find out—but I know some of what’s shoved in his closet. It’s enough.”

  “Damn right it is. NBC thinks they’ve got a story on their hands now, just wait—”

  “No!” I cut her off, drawing concerned looks from the three adults who call me their daughter.

  Dan makes a clicking noise with his tongue. “There’s more, isn’t there…”

  I nod. “Silas.”

  I don’t want to keep telling his secret.

  Roland shrugs. “What about him?”

  But I have to.

  So, in one breath, I let it out. “When Dean Baker was here yesterday he told me that if I told anyone about what had been going on, he’d tell everyone about Silas’ sexuality. Which was news to me. But I talked to Silas, who I think is in denial, but he knows we have to tell…”

  I turn my attention squarely to my mom. “You have to understand that in an environment like this, Silas isn’t likely to get a parade for being gay. He doesn’t want one. He’s—”

  “Scared,” Roland cuts in.

  “You knew?” I whisper.

  He stares blankly at me, unmoving.

  “Oh,” I continue. “You can’t tell me because it’s confidential. He’s talked to you in an official capacity…”

  “Official or not,” Roland says, looking far away, “his life isn’t mine to talk about.”

  Mom sighs. “That’s neither here nor there. By the time word gets out about the perverted Dean, no one is going to give one flying fu… anything about a gay college guy.”

  “Not in your world,” Dan interjects with surprising honesty. “But here they will.”

  She arches an offended eyebrow. “Enough to let girls continue to be raped, abused, and forced to have abortions?”

  “I didn’t say that, Wendy. There has to be a way to take care of everyone.”

  Mom walks over to the couch and sits on the other side of me. “We’re going to fix this.”

  “There’s nothing to fix. The damage has already been done. Haven’t you been listening?”

  “We need to pray about this,” Roland states, firm. As if he’s not in a room full of skeptics.

  I roll my eyes. “Isn’t it a bit late for that?”

  Roland’s eyes fall like I’ve broken his heart, and my cheeks heat in embarrassment like I may have done just that. “It’s never too late,” he whispers before disappearing into his office in a silent, heavy cloud.

  His words and tone remind me of when Asher came to see me at the Buddhist temple in New York.

  No one is a foregone conclusion, Kennedy. No one.

  “I’m tired,” I whisper to my mom and Dan. “I promised my friends you guys wouldn’t do anything until after the game tomorrow. Matt and the whole team are really excited about even a few minutes of national airtime, and I don’t want to ruin that for them, okay? Can we be kids for a few more hours?” My voice cracks. Mom wraps her arm around my waist and Dan settles his across my shoulders.

  “Of course,” she whispers, kissing my temple. “A few more hours.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Then,” she says coldly, “he’s mine.”

  “Easy, soldier,” I try to say with sarcasm, but it just comes out tired.

  I kiss both of them before they turn in to the guest room on the far side of the first floor, opposite the kitchen where I spent my first night in this house so many months ago. Before climbing the stairs, I pad down the hall toward Roland’s office.

  I rap lightly with my knuckle, a small stream of light passing through the not-quite closed door. There’s no answer, so I knock again. He didn’t go up to his bedroom, that much I know.

  “Dad?” I call softly.

  Still no answer, so I push the door open
, careful to be quiet.

  In the far corner of his office, near a broad window that faces the front of New Life church, Roland is face down on the floor, legs stretched straight out behind him.

  “Dad?!” I gasp. A small voice, void of breath as my throat closes and I race toward him.

  Nearing him, I see with a flood of relief that this position is intentional. His hands are in fists, propped on a small throw pillow and supporting his forehead. He ignores me. Or is so deep in prayer that he doesn’t hear me. Maybe both.

  “You are good, Lord.” His emphatic prayer muffled by the pillow. “Your sovereignty and your righteousness are good. Help me. Help me see. Help me help. Protect these girls, Lord. Help Silas. Your will be done with the dean. Give me words to speak, Lord Jesus…”

  I’ve prayed like this before out loud and in front of someone once. Knelt down in front of Asher on a sidewalk not so long ago as he sobbed through the story of how he is who he is today. I’ve felt the pleas I hear in Roland’s voice. I asked God to protect Asher from his pain. I did. I knelt right on the concrete and asked God to take it away. But he didn’t. Not even a little bit.

  I’m so angry I could spit.

  Isn’t there some committee I can bring this to? One that deals in justice and fairness over prayer requests? Roland, laying on the floor, stakes his life on these prayers. By all accounts it seems at least some have been answered. He’s got me back in his life, an amicable relationship with my mom, a thriving church, and a generally positive public opinion.

  Meanwhile, girls are getting raped and otherwise taken advantage of by people meant to guide them.

  Where is the balance?

  Roland’s voice turns to reciting scripture, something I’ve heard him do in prayer before. As if he’s run out of his own requests and is reminding himself of the Word. Eden calls it tattooing scripture on your heart. So that way when crisis or joys hit, you have biblical truths to fall back on.

  “Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!” He keeps on praying, reciting things I recognize from Psalms and Proverbs, but couldn’t pull out of a chapter and verse lineup.

  I stand there for a second more before retreating to my room, opening a Bible app on my phone and entering the words my dad said. The ones rattling in my brain.

  Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!

  Matthew nine fills my screen, and I read again the story of the possessed boy, and the father desperate to save him. This passage keeps coming up for me.

  Jesus seems agitated in this passage—something I like about him, that he’s human as much as he is divine. He implores the father to believe. That if the father has enough belief, his son will be healed. The father pleads. I can almost see him like, “Wait, wait. Okay. Okay, stop, wait!” Instead he tells Jesus he believes, but admits there could be something in him that’s less sure. He cried out to Jesus with tears, saying he believes. And, says, help my unbelief!

  I lie back on my pillow, too tired to undress but I manage to kick off my shoes. The father chased down Jesus to heal his son. He believed. When Jesus challenged him he didn’t stand around and try to demonstrate all the ways he believed. He just said “I do!” and “But fix whatever in me doesn’t.”

  Roland recognizes that there are likely parts of his human heart that don’t believe. He wants—needs—his whole being to believe for this battle we’re about to face.

  Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and try to recite the line. To tell God that I believe, and ask him to help the parts of me that don’t.

  But I can’t even get the first part out.

  At this point, it seems like I don’t have enough belief to petition God for more.

  “Show me you’re real,” is all I can manage before falling into a fitful sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Slow Motion

  Kennedy

  Asheville feels the most like New England to me in late October. Family and friends fill the foliage-lined stadium to watch the Carter University Knights play the Guilford College Quakers. It’s a non-conference game, as Carter is in the USA South Conference, and Guilford is in the ODAC… Matt explained this all to me. And it matters, somehow, because Guilford is the only school in North Carolina in the ODAC and they’re trying to get into the USA South… trust me, if Matt’s enthusiasm this morning on the phone is any indication, this matters.

  Anyway, according to my fearless, football-playing friend, Carter should have no problem blasting Guilford out of the water. His words, not mine.

  “When were you going to tell me about your mom’s political assignment?” Roland nudges me playfully as I sit sandwiched between him and my mom on the cold, metal bleachers.

  He’s doing his best to put on his charismatic face. Cameras are all around, but, thanks be to God, we’re not wearing mic’s today. There would be too much editing for the sound technicians to sift through, so they just get our faces. But, in another act of so-called grace, all the cameras are focusing on the field, and the intense game that’s under way.

  I shrug. “Never, probably. I keep secrets, you know. Well, unless someone’s life is in danger, I guess.”

  “Or lots of someones,” Mom grumbles under her breath. Dan puts an arm around her shoulder, tapping mine with the tips of his fingers.

  “This will be okay, you know,” Dan reassures.

  I nod.

  “Still haven’t heard from Silas?” Roland asks quietly.

  I shake my head. I texted him last night to make sure he was okay, but was met with silence.

  From behind me, Eden leans forward, speaking into my ear. “You’re crazy strong, you know that?”

  Okay, I do keep secrets. Except from my best friend. Anyone who is a woman knows that this is the cardinal rule: The best friend is always in the know. I smile, blowing her a kiss and refocusing on the scene unfolding around me.

  Jonah returns to the stands with hot chocolate for all of us and, dutifully, my mom slides over—since I don’t think Roland would ever slide away from me to let a boy in. Dan wouldn’t either, but he has no choice being on the other side of my mom.

  “Thanks, you.” I blush, inhaling the scent of warm cocoa.

  “Thank you.” He plants a small kiss on my cheek. Right there in front of everyone. My mom giggles, Roland pretends not to notice, and Eden gives us a cooing noise from behind.

  “For what?” I whisper as if we have any privacy at all.

  “Being you. Being strong and fearless. God pulled out all the stops with you.”

  Casting a glance to my left, I watch Roland bite his lip and grin before clearing his throat and turning to his left, where Buck Wells sits. It’s really a cozy stadium situation here. And we’ve got really good seats, too, thanks to all the strings one can pull being on TV. Roland, that is.

  I shrug. “I guess.”

  “Huh?” Jonah tilts his head to the side.

  “God hasn’t really been showing me his best work the last few weeks, Jonah.”

  He leans into me, taking a deep breath. “It’s when it gets darker that we have to race more ardently toward the light.”

  I look at him sideways. “Jesus motivational quotes?”

  “One of your dad’s sermons during Advent last year. When the world gets so dark, then Jesus is born and everything changes.”

  “For who?” I whisper. “Silas? Courtney and Caitlyn?”

  Jonah nods to the field with a hopeful grin. “Look at him out there.”

  Matt.

  The first quarter of the game is underway and Matt is harvesting the fruits of his labors over the last several months. Brawny as the day I met him and even more full of life, he’s a far cry from the broken version of himself that sat in the strip club all those months ago.

  “But you don’t believe it’s Jesus’ hand at work with him, do you…” Jonah trails off, reading me far better than I care for.

  I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “If I may…” He arches his eyebrow toward me, asking to c
ontinue. I nod. “You seem angry that God doesn’t fix things, or make them perfect. New. But when we see evidence of true, miraculous healing,” he points to the field where Matt stands, “you don’t believe it’s God. What is God to you, Kennedy?”

  “The man behind the curtain,” I let slide from my lips.

  “Oz?”

  I nod. “The Great and Powerful. Only, did you know that in the books Oz said he was The Great and Terrible? They changed it for the movie. Less scary.”

  “But he was a puny old man behind a curtain turning dials and pulling strings,” Jonah says, quite distressed. “Is that what you really think of God?”

  Perhaps I’m sounding a bit pessimistic, I realize. Cynical, even. “No,” I shake my head and plaster on an everything-is-fine smile for my hopelessly hopeful boyfriend. “I’m just… confused. Stressed. Tired.”

  The truth is, I don’t even know what I feel or believe right now, but I do know that the middle of a football game on an otherwise pleasant, if not ominous afternoon with all that we’re going to face later is not the place to hash out such matters. I want to get through the game in one piece, and hope we all remain as such when the confrontation with the dean is over. Moreover, I’m having a hard time waiting. Just waiting. For the right time. The time the grownups will pull the trigger and all hell will break loose.

  The crowd cheers and groans in a matter of seconds. It’s a low-scoring game so far. Low meaning we have zero points and Guilford has six—scoring one touchdown but missing the extra point. I think that’s how it all went.

  Matt’s a running back. An aggressive and intense position, which makes his size and athletic ability important. He’s on the larger end of the running backs I Googled on the Internet, since I know nothing about football, but he’s quick. Not just for his size, either. The boy can move under all that muscle, and this makes him one hell of a player. Roland’s words, actually. He said hell.

  Apparently, Guilford knows this, because they’ve been on Matt the entire game. Double, and sometimes triple—teamed. He’s bounced up from tackle after tackle, and he seems irritated with a level of testosterone I find laughable. He holds his arms out to the referees every time he gets up, clenching his fists and moving back to the huddle when they ignore his pleas. Some fouls have been called on the more aggressive guy after Matt, but not enough according to CU’s fans. I’ve always viewed Matt as a guy’s guy, but it’s no more evident than when he’s out there on the field.